Page 28 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

‘I—We’ll discuss it later,’ I manage.

Resigned, I grab Lee’s suitcase, and Phoebe – supremely unbothered by my attempts at discipline – clips on Taco’s hot pink lead. After saying goodbye to Magda, she leads the way around the side of the building to where I’ve parked my battered, blue pickup truck. Phoebe and Taco jump in the back, and I check they’re in properly before I load Lee’s cases.

‘I really am sorry about this, Daisy,’ I say softly, opening the passenger door for her.

‘It’s fine,’ she replies, climbing up.

‘The seatbelt is a bit…’ I reach up by her shoulder and give the seatbelt two sharp tugs, then I pull it across and clip it into place.

My arm is pressed against her body, one hand at her hip, the other braced against the headrest. Our faces are so close together that I can practically count every one of her long eyelashes. My gaze drops to her mouth, lingering for a moment on her lips. My senses are unexpectedly swimming in her: the feel of her silk shirt against my bare forearm, the warmth coming from her body, the dizzying scent of her perfume.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, forcing a smile. ‘I guess I’m used to buckling people in these days.’ I pull myself away, standing with my hand wrapped around the top corner of the door.

‘No problem,’ she replies, and I wonder how she looks so neat and tidy after a long day of travelling. I wonder why that tidiness has heat running through my body, a sensation that it takes me a moment to identify as lust.

Shit. This is not good. As if things aren’t complicated enough, without adding my sexually frustrated hormones into the mix. Single fatherhood hasn’t exactly done wonders for my love life.

‘Okay then,’ I say, closing her door. ‘Let’s go home.’

And as I make my way around to the driver’s side I have a stern word with myself.

The absolute last thing this situation needs is me lusting after my wife.

Chapter Ten

Lee

The drive to Nico and Phoebe’s house takes less than ten minutes and there’s no conversation, just the gentle hum of country music from the radio.

It’s not even close to enough time for me to unscramble my thoughts. Nico is a father. He has a daughter. And it seems like he’s living with her in this picture-postcard small town in America. On its own, this would be plenty to process, but there’s clearly something else going on that I don’t know about. Why on earth would Magda and Phoebe smuggle me out here?

Dealing with this when I am jetlagged beyond belief and my brain feels like it might start leaking out my ears is not my only problem, because my body continues in its attempts to betray me. If I ever had any hope that a year away from him would diminish my physical reaction to Nico, that dream has been ruthlessly crushed.

The man put my seatbelt on for me and I thought I was going to combust.

It’s even worse than last time I saw him. I want to touch him so badly it’s making me feel dizzy. I clasp my hands tightly together in my lap, just to make sure my fingers don’t reach out of their own accord to stroke along the edge of his jaw. I feel like my insides are on fire. I worry that I might spontaneously combust, become a living, breathing column of flame and the subject of one of those ‘world’s weirdest disasters’ TV shows.

We bump off the road and along a short track. ‘Here we are,’ Nico says as we emerge from the trees.

‘Oh,’ I manage. Once again I’ve been ambushed, ruthlessly charmed without warning. The light from Nico’s headlights sweeps over a little bungalow clad in wooden slats, painted a warm, buttery yellow. A covered porch runs the length of the building and there’s an actual porch swing, with lights wrapped around the sides. The front door is picture-book apple red. The house sits in a clearing, surrounded by tall trees, and it feels like something from a fairytale.

When Nico turns off the headlights, only the lights on the swing and the small lamp on the porch struggle against the darkness. I jump out of the truck and tip my head back, looking up at a spangled sky, thick with stardust.

Phoebe clatters up the steps to the front door, with Taco yapping happily behind her.

‘Okay?’ Nico asks at my side.

I nod, find myself struggling with a tangle of emotions. ‘It’s lovely,’ I reply. ‘It’s not… somewhere I would have pictured you living.’

If I’d thought about him staying in one place at all, I guess I’d imagined an apartment somewhere, high up, looking out over the lights of a big city.

Nico huffs out a soft laugh. ‘Yeah.’ He lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, looking at the house, the front door now hanging open, lights popping on in the windows, marking Phoebe’s path through the rooms inside. ‘I—’ he starts, and then he shakes his head. ‘Let’s get you set up inside. You must be exhausted.’

I pick my way up the wide wooden steps, avoiding a chewed-up tennis ball and a pair of small purple trainers. There are two bikes propped up against the wooden railings. I don’t know why the sight of those bikes – one adult sized, and one child sized – brings a lump to my throat, but it does. Clearly, the jetlag really is catching up with me.

A thought occurs to me then, one that should have occurred to me much sooner. ‘Phoebe,’ I say out loud. ‘You live with Phoebe.’

Nico slides me a puzzled look. ‘Yes,’ he agrees.